


it's the end of the world again (or, samantha traynor has a crush)

by strangesmallbard



Series: we will be everything that we'd ever need (femslash february 2016) [5]
Category: Mass Effect
Genre: F/F, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Humor, post-ME3
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-05
Updated: 2016-02-05
Packaged: 2018-05-18 08:45:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,437
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5916841
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/strangesmallbard/pseuds/strangesmallbard
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Are you kidding me.” </p><p>Ash looks up from her noodles. “What?”</p><p>Sam nearly throws the datapad, which would have been a terrible idea since datapads were still in short supply. She settles with placing it down on the makeshift table more harshly than usual. “The Alliance sent me a handy-dandy reminder that it’s almost time for my yearly GPPR.”</p><p>**</p><p>Sam has to take her yearly exam to stay with the Alliance, and Ashley offers her assistance. Which would be totally fine, wonderful actually, if Sam could keep her cool around her for about five seconds.</p>
            </blockquote>





	it's the end of the world again (or, samantha traynor has a crush)

**Author's Note:**

> shoutout to the mass effect wikia for always being there when u need to be extra thorough and know next to nothing about military ranks.
> 
> this fic is based on a prompt from rizzles-this-this on tumblr: after the reaper war and things have become more orderly, the Alliance reinstates yearly gun proficiency & physical requirement tests for all. Sam goes to Ash for help since during the war she didn't really have time to practice

“Are you _kidding_ me.” 

 

Ash looks up from her noodles. “What?”

 

Sam nearly throws the datapad, which would have been a terrible idea since datapads were still in short supply. She settles with placing it down on the makeshift table more harshly than usual. “The Alliance sent me a handy-dandy reminder that it’s almost time for my yearly GPPR.”

 

Ash laughs, and it sounds kind of like bells chiming in the distance, or some other entirely beautiful sound, _oh no_. “Seriously? I would have thought those would be placed on the back-burner. Not that they aren’t important, but you know, the entire galaxy in shambles, the reaper carcasses still lying around making it nearly impossible to rebuild any infrastructure….the Alliance has enough keeping them busy.”

 

“Wait.” Sam narrows her eyes. “This says to report to Arcturus Station, that can’t….be right.”

 

“Oh.” A shadow passes over Ash’s face, something hard and old. She looks at her noodles for a few blinks and then puts her fork down with a sigh.  “Probably an automatic message, then.”

 

“Probably.” Sam suppresses the urge to place her hand over Ash’s. (Survived the end of the world, and she still comes out with a _straight girl crush_ , honestly where is the next deep space mission she can sign up for? Oh right _,_ bloody robot cuttlefish.) She stares out into the distance instead, passed the still ruined New York City skyline, the said reaper carcass lying somewhere on 5th Avenue, and at the sliver of blue, blue ocean just visible. 

 

“I’ll message Alliance HQ, just in case. I’d rather never be on the other end of a Commander Shepard Disapproval Face.” 

 

Ash snorts, and tries to get back to her meal. “Yep. _I only worry about your safety, Ash_. I don’t doubt it Skipper, but jeez, lay off the puppy eyes.” Sam won’t mention her small smile or the fond way she shakes her head. “See if they can send anything beyond army rations, instant noodles, and hamburger buns too while you’re messaging them.”

 

“Doubtful. Oh, what I wouldn’t give for a Costa’s bacon and brie sandwich right now…..”

 

Ash gives a smirk that had Samantha weak in the knees all the way back on Horizon.  “I have no idea what that is, but sign me the hell up, Comm-Specialist.”

 

* * *

 

“Oh no. _Oh god._ ” 

 

Ash turns her head from a particularly large box of equipment that she’s carrying. Sam tries (and ultimately, fails) to not look at her straining muscles, think about Ash carrying her across a field of unscorched grass, maybe some asari new wave music in the background–

 

“What?” 

 

Oh right. Anxiety burbles up in her stomach. “I still have to take my GPPR. I got a very friendly message from someone named Corporal Daniella Gutierrez saying that unfortunately, yes, in order to continue with the Alliance Navy I still have to complete my GPPR, we’re so sorry for the inconvenience, please report to the nearest HQ for the test, shouldn’t take more than an hour, etcetera, etcetera.   

 

Ash furrows her brow. “Damn, Traynor. I’m sorry about that. Shouldn’t be that bad though, I mean at least the nearest HQ isn’t far from here.” She gives that blasted smirk again. “And I’m pretty sure this is payback for lounging around while _some of us_ do all the hard work.”

 

“Hey!” Sam puts her hands on her hips. “I’m doing what I usually do, the tech-and-sorting stuff. I’m not the beefcake around here.”

 

Oh god. She said that out loud. In person. This is the worst day of her life, (and yes that includes the day Reapers tried to eat her homeworld.)

 

Ash laughs and shakes her head. “Beefcake, huh?”

 

“Well!” Sam throws her hands up and nearly throws the damn datapad too. “You know! Your arms can lift...things! Many things! Maybe me, probably.” Oh fucking. Hell. “And about three varren.”

 

“Uh-huh. You know, there’s a _lot_ of ab-work that also goes into–”

 

“Anyway! That box goes up there, by the Sirta Foundation equipment going to Feros. No trading sticker.” Did the day just get hotter? Yes, that must be it. That _has_ to be it. 

 

Ash hikes up the box. “Roger-dodger, Comm-Specialist. My _beefcake_ skills will get it there, pronto. And I was kidding around. You’re good at what you do, Traynor.” She _winks_.

 

Sam scratches the back of her neck. “Ah, yes. I knew that. Thank you, Lieutenant-Commander.” 

Sam gives a thumbs up. She’s never going outside again. It’s official. Then maybe Lieutenant-Commander Ashley Williams will forget she exists and she won’t–

 

“So, you’re nervous about the GPPR?” 

 

Grateful for the return to her other source of stress, Sam checks the datapad for the next shipment list. “The physical portion usually goes….okay. I’ve had solid passing marks every year since I’ve joined. Gun proficiency? Er, not so much. I failed that portion of the test twice last year. Guns and I have a very testy relationship. _And_ now I’ve been out of practice for a year.” 

 

Ash finally finds the right place for the box and has to stand on her toes to reach it. Sometimes Sam forgets that she’s only an inch or two taller. She pushes it in with an _umph_ , and turns around with a relieved sigh. “What’s your main issue with them? Stance? Aim?"

 

Sam sighs. “Everything?” She points with her datapad at a cluster of boxes on her right. “The next box is the one marked ‘Saronis Applications”, and it’s going to Aephus. Also it gets a trading sticker.”

 

Ash slaps on the sticker, which is really just extra strong duct tape. “Well, lucky for you my gun proficiency scores could rival Commander Miriam Shepard herself, _and_ I have a few hours free tomorrow.”

 

“Tomorrow?” Sam physically wills her voice to drop the two octaves it just tried to reach for.

 

“You’re passing that GPPR or I’m not a council spectre.” 

 

Sam hopes that she’s not beaming. She also knows that she is. “Thank you, Ash. Really.”

 

She smiles back before reaching to grab the box. “Of course, what are friends for?”

 

Oh. _Right._ Yes.

 

* * *

 

At the moment, Sam is stationed at Warehouse 7, a makeshift Alliance base for non-combative personnel. Ash is right next door at Warehouse 8, or as some of her colleagues have taken to call it, “Camp Grunt.” This is good, except it isn’t at all, because sometimes Sam has to work with the knowledge that Ash is much, much closer than an omnitool call away. _Or_ work with her on a project, as was the case yesterday.

 

The plan is for Sam to meet her at Warehouse 8, and then they’d both head off to the makeshift target practice around back.

 

Oh, damnit. Her palms are sweaty. She wipes them off on her blanket.

 

“When’s Williams picking you up?” Gabby Daniels asks from the top bunk, and Sam can _hear_ that smirk.

 

Gabby is the best. But she’s also the worst.

 

“I’m going over there, actually.”

 

She feels a shift above. “You sure, Traynor? Because I’m pretty sure that’s Williams over by the entrance.”

 

She scans over the rows of dropped-down sheets and bunks and lab stations and finds a familiar figure talking to Helmswoman Priyanka Chaudhri. She takes a deep breath, wipes her hands on the blanket one more time, and pushes off the bed.

 

“Hey Traynor.” 

 

Sam grimaces and looks up. Gabby’s eyes are twinkling above her datapad. “Yes?”

 

“Sadly, you’ve missed the prime time for getting laid. But post-apocalypse ain’t half bad either. Knock her socks off, Traynor.”

 

“Ugh. I’m going to knock _you,_ if I don’t accidentally shoot my own foot.”

 

Gabby laughs.

 

Eyes zoomed in on Ash the whole way over, Sam sort of feels like she’s floating. Why didn’t she have this reaction _yesterday?_ Yesterday she was a perfectly functional human being with a devastatingly hopeless crush, and today she feels like reaper noises are going off in her head every ten seconds. What changed? What it is the beefcake slip-up?

 

It was probably the beefcake slip-up. Damnit. Drat.

 

“Specialist! You ready to shoot some coca-cola cans?”

 

“You bet. I just hope the cans don’t start shooting back.”

 

Ash gives her a (fond?) quirk of a brow. Sam wants to die.

 

* * *

 

“Okay, that was a lot closer than last time!”

 

Sam glares at the can tower. She hopes it can feel her wrath. “I didn’t even hit _one_.”

 

Ash sighs and reaches for her left bicep. Her hand is warm and calloused, and she can’t quite blame her sweaty forehead on the sun.  “You’re too tense here. For this stance, this arm needs to be relaxed.”

 

Right, relaxed, because that’s totally plausible when Ashley is right _here_ , her body just close enough that she can feel the heat. She takes in a deep breath, exhales because she is a grown adult who can perfectly manage this inconvenient crush, and relaxes her left bicep. Ash lets go as soon as she does, and Sam feels terrible for missing the contact.

 

“I’ll just quit the Alliance and become a toothbrush saleswoman. There’s still a market for that, right?”

 

“ _Sam._ Now, do what I showed you. Lean slightly forward, right leg back, but keep both knees flexed. And remember to keep your head level.” 

 

“Right, I got it.” She hopes her narrowed eyes and furrowed brow gives the impression that she knows exactly what she’s doing. It worked in basic training, and it’s going to work now, damnit.

 

_Then_ Ashley puts both hands on Sam’s shoulders. All of her synapses in that general area manage to fire up, and familiar knots build up in her stomach. She chances a glance at her. Her eyes are their usual soft, bright brown, her lips are quirked up, and there’s a certain tenderness that Sam became aware of back on the Normandy, all those talks on the Starboard Observation Deck. 

 

“You can do this. You’re Comm-Specialist Samantha Traynor of the SSV-Normandy, and you are a _badass_ that can triangulate fifteen different signals at once. That’s beefcake material, in a way.”

 

“Thirty, actually. And ugh, I’m never going to live that down.” 

 

Ash smiles, and then narrows her eyes. Puts on her most serious expression, and  crosses her arms.  “Take them out. Those coca-cola cans have had their last laugh.”

 

She takes a more genuine deep breath now, tries to exhale all those knots in her stomach. It manages to work this time. Somewhat. This time, she winks.  “Aye-aye, Lieutenant-Commander.”

 

Ashley blinks, and is that a blush? No, that’s definitely not a blush, no no. That absolutely cannot be a blush, and oh god, why did she wink? Why did she ever think that was a good idea? Why did she decide to join the Alliance after her required years instead of work back home like she said she would? Then she wouldn’t _be_ here, winking at attractive council spectres. Of course she would probably be dead, oh god, or–

 

“They’re getting closer, Specialist.” That damn _smirk_. 

 

She gives an affirmative nod, once again takes a deep breath, takes a step back with her right foot, flexes her knees, relaxes her left arm, narrows her eyes in a show of competency and–

 

_Oof._ That was loud. 

 

The recoil she wasn’t prepared for no matter how much she flexed her knees causes her to drop the gun and scoot back, right into the waiting arms of Ash. Or more-so, her rock solid abs. What does she have, an _eight pack?_ This is too much. This is really too much.

 

“Whoa there, steady.” Ash lightly holds her arms. She’s so warm. Sam may faint. “Hey, look! You got one of the bastards!”

 

Sure enough, the top can was gone, shot into grassy oblivion with its fallen squadmates from earlier battles. Sam manages a smile. “Ha! I’ll see you in hell, Commander Cola.”

 

Ash actually laughs at that. (Again, bells chiming.) (Drat.)

 

“I’m not a hopeless case then?” Sam says, turning back.

 

“We have to work on your recoil, but I’d say you’re on your way to a passing GPPR grade, Sam.” 

 

She does something incredibly daft and reaches out to hold her hand. “Thank you, Ash. I really don’t think I could pass this without you.”

 

Ash stares down at their hands and does something incredibly unexpected. She _intertwines_ their fingers. “Oh, you could have. Just not with the same finesse.” 

 

Sam gulps. “Probably not, no. Though my fumbling with the safety might have amused them.”

 

“Not quite sure that’s the word for it.” Ash gives her a soft smile. “I’m proud of the work you did today, Grunt-In-Training.”

 

“Oh you wish.” 

 

Ash squeezes her hand. “Nah. I think you’re good right where you are. Though what I _do_ wish for is for a certain Comm Specialist to woman up and ask me out for coffee.”

 

What. _What_. Whatwhatwhat. Did she just hear that right? Did she fall into the shadow realm of whatever RPG she was playing with Gabby and Kenneth last week? Holy _shit_. She stares at their hands in increasing incredulity, waiting for the inevitable _gotcha_ , but when she finally chances a look at her face, all she finds is that. damn. _smirk_. Only her eyes are softer around the edges, and oh, _holy shit_. Holy shit.

 

“I...don’t think the galaxy has worked itself up to re-opening coffee shops yet.” 

 

Ash laughs and reaches up to brush away a fly-away hair.  “Yeah, they damn well better get on that. The canteen in Warehouse 1 will have to do.”

 

“Wait.” Sam opens her mouth and closes it. And does it again. “But you, I _saw_ you turn down….oh what was her name. Gianna–?”

 

“–Parasinni?”

 

“Yes! You said she wasn’t your type!”

 

“I didn’t mean _women_ , Sam.”

 

Sam could hit herself. She does, actually. She smacks herself right in the damn forehead. “Oh. _Oh!_ I’m so. I’m an idiot. I’m _such_ an idiot.”

 

Ash grins and reaches up to lightly touch her cheek. “So, coffee?”

 

There’s only one way to answer that. “Hell _yes_!”

 

Ash leans in and whispers in her ear, her breath warm and causing shivers down her neck and spine.  “After you take down the rest of Commander Cola’s squad, Specialist.” She says.

 

“Rodger-Dodger.” She squeaks. Ash gives her a quick peck on the cheek that will leave Sam blushing for days, and inclines her head towards the discarded gun. 

 

“Go get ‘em.” 

 

Sam prepares for the shot, knees flexed, left arm relaxed, right leg back, head level, eyes narrowed with just a bit more confidence this time, and–

 

“Eat dust, Corporal Cherry Cola!”


End file.
